


The Unusual Company of Thorin Oakenshield

by updatebug



Series: The unusual life of Bilbo Baggins [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dwobbit Bilbo, Female Bilbo, Found Family, Hobbits, Mysterious Dwarf Father, Unusual relationships, Young Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23174992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/updatebug/pseuds/updatebug
Summary: Bilbo Baggins is not quite the usual Hobbit, despite her very best efforts to fit in. But when her mother's old Wizard friends brings a gaggle of dwarves to her door she can't resist the urge to find out more about her father's people. Trolls, Orcs and family reunions aren't exactly what she had in mind.
Series: The unusual life of Bilbo Baggins [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1109832
Comments: 29
Kudos: 257
Collections: The hobbit and related





	1. The Unusual Childhood of Bilbo Baggins

Prologue

By the time that Bilbo Baggins was born, the Baggins were well used to secrets. Why, Bungo managed to hide a whole love for nearly twelve years, and Belladonna was so good a hiding grief that even she sometimes forgot her sorrow. Although, it must be said, that neither Hobbit was quite so good at secrets as Bilbo Baggins, who was born into one.

Now, it must be said that, for much of her early childhood Bilbo was not quite so good at keeping secrets and Bungo and Belladonna found themselves becoming quite adept at whipping out the odd white lie to explain some of the peculiarities that poor baby Bilbo had. Where words failed, Belladonna was prepared with a loud yell, a mean right hook and a gaggle of enthusiastic (if slightly confused) Took cousins ready to defend Bilbo against any perceived insult.

So, if Bilbo was a little slow to crawl, well that was just the Hobbit predisposition to sit kicking in early. And if Bilbo was a little slow to walk then Missus Baggins has something to say to you Amaranth Grubb if you fancy saying that to her face!

And if, when Bilbo said her first word; “cake” (never let it be said that Hobbits don’t have their priorities in order) at nearly six years old, the official Shire record already had her first word down as “Mama” …well. This lie was only helped by the fact that Bilbo’s first word was immediately followed by her first and second. “Please” and “Mama”. (Hobbits also know which way their bread is buttered).

But if, outside the doors of Bag End, Bilbo Baggins grew up a slightly odd (It’s the Took blood, the Baggins whisper) and a little shy (certainly those Baggins’ fault the Tooks agree) then inside was a different matter entirely.

Xxx

By Bilbo’s counting, she grew up with four parents. Two living Hobbits and two loving Ghosts. She belonged to all of them, and to none of them enough. Not quite a Hobbit, but not quite anything else either. She was raised on Uncle Sig’s recipe cards, fragile as a petal and handled like a memory by a weary father. She was raised on dwarvish tales of adventure and making, by a sorrowful mother.

There were pieces of all of them in the house. The knives and beads her birth father had left her mother. The crooked doorjamb in the study where Uncle Sig had failed to hold the wood straight. The quiet murmur of voices, reminiscing in the night when she was supposed to be in bed. There were pieces of them all in her too. Her mother’s passion, her father’s loyalty, Sig’s reckless call to adventure and enough of Bungo’s careful watchfulness to temper all three.

But the little sorrows that made up the marriage of Bungo and Belladonna Baggins were things that Bilbo could touch on, but not quite grasp. She knew that she was loved and loved fiercely by the dad that spent hours pouring over books with her. By the mother that sang songs and showed her how to throw a punch. By the father that showed her valour and glory, and the uncle that always thought it was a good idea to steal an extra apple pie.

So yes, despite her little quirks, there were very few people in the Shire who could deny that Bilbo Baggins was a happy child.

And then the Brandywine froze.

And childhood ended.


	2. The Unusual case of the Doubtful Guest

Bilbo Baggins was gardening. This was not unusual. Bilbo Baggins was often gardening, the one thing that might make this odd was when you consider the fact that the Baggins technically employed a gardener. But Belladonna had always been best with fruit trees and Bungo with houseplants and so the process of trimming and pruning and weeding a carefully maintained flowerbed had always been quite beyond them. By the time that Bilbo had inherited Bag End, the Gamgee’s had been family and she hadn’t quite had the heart to let them go. Instead she, and the old Gaffer, had come to an agreement. Everything over and around the hill could be his, but everything in the front garden was hers. Because Bilbo? _Loved_ gardening. 

She loved the heat of the sun battering down on the back of her neck, she loved the ache in her arms of a job well done and the tender gentleness of placing a bulb into its new bed. She loved the pretty nameless stones that the trowel dug up and kept the nicest, polishing them until they shone and arranging them on her dresser. She had a talent for it too. It was well known in the Shire that Bilbo’s strawberries were the biggest and sweetest, and her tomatoes had placed in the Shire fair three years running. She was also best bar none at coaxing the hardest, stoniest, rockiest soils to yield beneath her spade and the roadsides and hilltops of the Shire were covered in patches of Black-Eyed Susans and Lavander and Milkweed where the local Baggins had worked her magic.

In many ways Bilbo was very like the plants that she coaxed from the ground. She had been the last of her age-mates to hit her growth spurt staying small and sweet until well into her tweens when she suddenly shot up to half a head taller than the tallest of her peers. The new height had never quite sat right on her either, and she’d never grown out of the gangly, over-stretched appearance of youth. She’d never grown out of a child’s clumsiness either and, at comfortably middle aged, had yet to develop the crows’ feet and laughter lines that her friends were starting to sport. Bilbo Baggins, it seemed, was firmly stuck. Her friends had all moved on and married and started families on her own while Bilbo (to the snide remarks of Lobelia) had settled firmly into spinsterhood still secretly convinced that boys were gross, and romance was mushy. Plants, she had decided to the dismay of several eligible and (most importantly) wealth hungry bachelors, made a lot more sense.

So no, it was not unusual to find Bilbo in the garden. It was not even unusual for someone (especially some of those still hopeful, still poor, bachelors) to pop over for a chat. What was unusual on this particular day was who exactly was stopping by.

Xxx

It was a particularly sunny day and the heat and sweat had already unravelled Bilbo’s ringlets into a frizzy, tangled mess around her face. This would normally be very frustrating for Bilbo, who needed several hours, crimping, curlers and the use of a flat iron to force her hair into the usual Hobbit ringlets.

Today, though, that was the last thing on her mind because, today, was repotting day. The baby plants that she’d kept warm and nurtured in winter were finally being moved to their new homes in the garden and there was a lot of digging to do.

“Come on,” Bilbo crooned, slipping her fingers beneath the roots of a particularly stubborn rhododendron. “Time to move. You’ll like it better, I promise.”

She crowed triumphantly as she finally managed to pull the plant out and barely noticed how she showered herself in soil. “There you go.” She said, plonking it down in the hole she’d dug and starting to smooth the soil back over. “I told you that you’d like it better.”

She rubbed a gloved hand across her face, not noticing the smear of mud that she’d left on her cheek and wondered if you ought to nip inside and grab her hat. It was a sunny day, after all, and her nose was starting to feel quite pink. Barely had the thought crossed her mind when the sun was blocked out. Bilbo just barely resisted the urge to groan. She hoped it wasn’t Andy Cotton, here to ask about root rot again. She’d spent the whole afternoon repotting his poor plants while he tried to recline suggestively on a sack of fertiliser. (It had split. His fancy trousers had been ruined. Overall a pretty successful Saturday).

“Good morni – Oh!” That was not Andy Cotton. Well, not unless that fertiliser was a lot better than she realised (In which case she might buy some for her tomatoes). That was a big person. A very, very big person. He was as spindly and twisted as the wooden staff that he leaned against, and his face was hidden beneath a broad brimmed hat that a crooked nose protruded from like a tap on a sink. He wore a dark cloak that was quite at odds with the weather and loomed over Bilbo’s yellow fence like a ruffled crow.

Behind the shadows of the hat a voluminous mouth cracked open and a gravelly voice emerged.

“Good Morning, at what do you mean by that?” The voice asked. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”

“Well, all of them at once I suppose,” Bilbo said, putting her spade back in the bucket with a clang at looking around for her trowel. “Mostly though, I suppose I mean hello.”

“Hmm,” The man said, and Bilbo almost found herself wishing for Andy. (Almost. He was really quite annoying).

“So,” she said, standing up and scooping up her bucket. She didn’t think there was a polite way to edge backwards into the house but if there was, by Jove she’d find it! “Can I help you?”

“That remains to be seen.” The man said. “You see I am looking for someone to share in an adventure.”

Bilbo dropped her bucket. “I oh,” she stammered, twisting her hands together. “I don’t think you’ll find anyone to go on an adventure here. No, maybe Bree? They’re an odd sort in Bree.” She nodded decisively. “Yes. Best try down there, over the water. I don’t think anyone in Hobbiton would be interested in that sort of thing. And!” She added as inspiration finally struck, “I believe I left a pie in the oven. It must be burning by now – I’d best go see to it. Have a good morning, sir!” 

With that she turned and near sprinted for the door, barely remembering to scoop up her gardening tools on the way. She had almost made it when the man harrumphed again and said:

“To think that I should have lived to be "good morninged" by Belladonna Took's son as if I were selling buttons at the door.”

Bilbo froze. “You knew, Mama?”

“Of course,” The man said, leaning move heavily on his staff. “And you. You have changed Bilbo Baggins, and not entirely for the better.”

Bilbo frowned. Despite the rudeness of the man she did think that perhaps he was vaguely familiar. “Um,” She started, glancing around to make sure that no one else was about, fidgeting with the chain around her neck. “So, this adventure, is it about my father?”

Two fluffy grey eyebrows the size of caterpillars furrowed. “Bungo? No, I’m afraid not my girl. A very good chap your father but I knew Belladonna better.”

“Oh,” Bilbo’s face fell, and she glanced down, scuffing at the ground with her foot. It had been a silly thought anyway. If father hadn’t come back when Mama and Dad had gone, he wouldn’t be back now. “Well, like I said. No-one in the Shire will be interested in adventures of any sort. You’d best try elsewhere. Maybe you could come for dinner sometime though? I haven’t entertained one of Mama’s friends in a very long time, Mr..?”

“Gandalf,” The man supplied.

“Right, Mr Gandalf,” Bilbo agreed, “But still, this pie, I really ought to…” and then, ignoring how rude it was, Bilbo slipped inside and shut her green door very firmly behind her. She took a second to breath a sigh of relief, dismissing an odd scratching behind her as the wind, and heading off to the kitchen- all that talking of pies had given her a craving.

Xxx

The filling, a delicious mixture of chicken, garlic, thyme and gravy was simmering away on the hob, the pastry was cooked and waiting for its filling and, in the oven, a whole bunch of potatoes had been sliced into thick wedges and were cheerfully sizzling away in a pan of oil that was slowly turning them into chips.

Bilbo, everything done for now, had left them to their own devices for a quick wash and to change into her comfiest nightdress and fluffiest dressing gown. At the moment was sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair with a very thick bristled brush and telling her parents about her day.

“I managed to get all the plants in the front garden Mama, and I found a new rock!” Bilbo told the portrait of her mother. Lobelia had had some very snide comments about ungrateful children who didn’t display family portraits in the family room, but Bilbo knew where her parents would rather be. In the bedroom so she could keep Dad Bungo with Uncle Sig and Mama with Father’s knives. She kept them shiny, if not sharp and always made sure that whenever she dusted the paintings, she polished the swords. “It’s got shiny green bits in it, see,” She held it up. “I bet father could tell me what it was. And I’m using Uncle Sig’s recipe for dinner. Sorry, dad, I know you say that ruff puff pastry is an abomination but rolling out the layers just takes sooooo long.”

Bilbo groaned, yanking at a very hard knot. Really, she should be putting her hair in curlers so that they could set over night, but she just didn’t want to. It took ages and it hurt and anyway she wasn’t going to be seeing anyone, instead she started to twist it together into a loose plait. It wasn’t technically a Hobbit style, but Mama had taught it to her.

“Oh,” she added. “I met one of your friends today, Mama, Mr Gandalf. I remembered when I was making dinner, he used to make the fireworks. He asked if I wanted to go on an adventure.” She shuddered, glancing guiltily at father’s knives and the cheeky smirk on Uncle Sig’s painted face. “I told him no of course. What would I do on an adventure?”

She swallowed. Besides. People who went on adventures never came back. None of her parents had. “Anyway,” she said, jumping off the chair and placing her brush back in the exact centre of the dressing table, surrounded by her polished garden rocks. “I had better go and put the pie in the oven. I don’t want to miss tea.”


	3. The Unusual invasion of Bag End

There are few things worse for a young woman, living alone, than to open the door at night and to find a strange man standing on your doorstep. The situation can only be made worse by realising that you are in your pyjamas at the time.

Well, I suppose that that’s not entirely true. For some people there is nothing better than to open the door to find that there is a strange man standing on your doorstep. And the situation can only be made better by realising that you are in your pyjamas at the time. If the man is tall, dark and handsome, well, such things dreams are made of. (A certain kind of dream at any rate.)

Bilbo, however was not one of those people. And she certainly wasn’t up for debating the tall, dark and handsome qualities of the person on the doorstep. The hair that he had was dark and he was certainly taller than her though, as a Hobbit, most were. Bilbo, however was not familiar enough with dwarves to be able to tell if this particular one could be counted as tall. Because the man at the door (As most of you will have realised) was in fact a dwarf.

Perhaps we should take a few steps backwards.

It had been two days since Bilbo’s rather unsettling visit with Gandalf. In that time, she had managed to avoid another awkward conversation with Andy Cotton, defended her mother’s best spoons from Lobelia’s pockets and secured a rather large and lovely ham from the market. She would be eating honey glazed pork for a month and her mouth watered at just the thought. All thoughts of wizards, and adventures had quite drifted their way out of her head. Well. No. Truthfully the Tookish, Dwarvish part of her brain had latched onto the idea and refused to let it go, waking her up with flights of fancy about running off and finding her father, or learning to knife fight or sewing beads into her hair like the stories that her Tookish cousins brought back from Bree.

But no, the sensible Baggins part of her knew that this was just a dream. People who went on adventures didn’t come back. Besides, who would be there to look after Bag End for Mama and Dad and Uncle Sig if she went running off into the wild. And if someone else moved in they might find the paintings, or dad’s knives, or the little green carnations that Bungo had carved around the wedding bed (and everybody knew what they meant!). Someone could find out the secrets that Mama and Dad had kept their whole entire lives! And how could Bilbo betray them like that?

So no, Bilbo had quite firmly pushed down all adventuring thoughts and focused instead on silver spoons, delicious hams and inconvenient suiters. Perhaps had she not she might have found herself more prepared when –

“Dwalin at your service.”

– Well, when a dwarf appeared on her doorstep.

Bilbo squeaked and tried to subtly tighten the belt of her patchwork dressing gown. Bungo would have been dreadfully ashamed of her then, for Bilbo found her manners quite escaping her and she was unable to say _anything_ back. Much less her name. She didn’t say anything when the dwarf shouldered his way into her home. She didn’t saw anything when he started eating her dinner. And she certainly didn’t say anything when a second dwarf appeared and started doing to same. It wasn’t until after the two had crashed foreheads and started calling each other brother that Bilbo managed to find her voice again.

“Um,” She immediately squeaked and drew back under the sudden intensity of their gaze. One may have been squat and white-haired, the other tall (she was finally decided on this) and dark but there was no denying that their eyes were the same. “Sorry to interrupt…”

“Don’t worry about it, Lassie,” The white-haired one (Balin she reminded herself. Dad really would be appalled at her manners today) and turned back to his conversation with his brother.

“…Ah, no,” Bilbo continued, fiddling with her sleeve and trying not to flinch at the eyes that were suddenly back on her. “Sorry, I was just wondering – is this about my Father?”

“Your Father?” Balin asked cheerfully. “I wouldn’t have thought so, is he the burglar then?”

“Um, no?” Bilbo squeaked. Eru she hoped not. A criminal for a Father. The Shire would die from collective shock.

“I wouldn’t worry about it then,” Balin said, turning back to his brother. As though the matter was settled.

The matter, incidentally, was _not_ settled. And if the doorbell hadn’t rung at that precise moment Bilbo would have made that known. Probably. She was certainly gearing up for a good yelling. As it happened however the doorbell did ring and shortly after that it rang again. And before Bilbo knew it there were twelve dwarves in her dining room. Twelve dwarves and a wizard.

Twelve dwarves and a wizard in her dining room. Banging their knives against the table that dad had made. Throwing mama’s plates around the room and tramping mud across the floor that Uncle Sig had insisted be made out of pine so that every time they polished it, they could get the lovely smell. Twelve dwarves eating her food and drinking the wine that she wasn’t supposed to drink cause even if mama was dead she would ground Bilbo until her hundreds if she found out and wiping their mouths on the doilies that dad had made and not listening when she asked them to stop and –

It was too much. The Dwarves weren’t paying attention to her anyway. Even though it was her house they had come into and her things that they were – Bilbo fled.

Xxx

Now, if you are looking for somewhere to get lost not many folks will search out the Shire. Try Mirkwood, they might tell you. Lots of trees in Mirkwood, easy to get lost there. Or even the Barrow-Downs. Not many will come looking for you in the Barrow-Downs, it’s a perfect place to be alone with your thoughts, as long as you don’t mind the possibility of being killed by a Barrow-wight and, lets be fair, some don’t.

This dwarf in particular was not looking to get lost. This was not much comfort to him seeing as he had somehow managed it anyway. He was looking for a green door on top of a hill and was somehow not having any luck at all.

He had crossed a river, and walked through a field, and crossed another river and walked through another field and he was still no closer to finding this door. He had passed a tannery and then a pub and then another tannery and now it finally looked like he might be heading in the right direction.

One might imagine, that if one was looking for a house on top of a hill, the first direction that they would pick would be _up_. Alas, the dwarf in question was struggling to even find that. Though it should be noted that the path he was on did have a steady upwards slop, so we can hope that he is on the right track at last.

If anyone is thinking that I might be a little harsh on this poor dwarf, who just happens to be a little directionally challenged please remember that there is only one road in the Shire. In order to get lost one would almost have to be actively trying.

But still, here was the hill and here was the door and here was the burglar’s mark. The dwarf rapped his knuckles against the door and stood back to wait.

And wait.

…and wait.

He knocked again.

“Uncle Thorin!” Kili crowed, yanking the door open. “You’re here!”

“Indeed,” Thorin agreed stepping into the house. He had to duck his head to get through the door but once he was in it was rather a spacious little home, roomy, with shelves and cupboards full of useless little knickknacks and breakable china. Lots of pegs though, which was useful as he could see the thirteen cloaks already hanging from them. Everyone else was here then. Good.

He allowed Kili to lead him through the house into a large dining room. The table had been covered in a wide variety of food and ales and the room was filled with dwarves. Gandalf was sat in one corner, cheerfully puffing away at his pip and watching the dwarves with an eagle eye. There was not, however, any sign of the burglar that Thorin had been promised. “And where is our host, then?”

“Ah,” Kili glanced around, looking over at his brother who was sat near the fire. Thorin hadn’t seen the boys in weeks. Though hopefully they’d been keeping themselves out of trouble. The guilty look on Kili’s face suggested otherwise. “Don’t actually know. She was definitely here a moment ago though, don’t know where she could have gone.”

“Hmmm.” Thorin scowled at the wizard. He may not have expected much but the burglar to actually be there when he arrived had been one of the things he had. Though with this cozy little home it was doubtful that the burglar would be much use. “Gandalf? The burglar?”

“Well, now,” Gandalf said, standing up from his corner and almost braining himself on a chandelier. “You’ve travelled a long way and there is food and drink, come, sit. I will locate our erstwhile burglar. Once everyone is refreshed, we can move on to business.”

“Very well,” Thorin agreed taking a seat next to his nephew and allowing Fili to pass him a plate of roasted ham. He would leave the burglar to the wizard.

Xxx

The burglar in question, though she would have quite the fit if she knew she was being referred to as such, had taken refuge in her bedroom. She heard the knocking at the door and couldn’t quite bring herself to answer it. She hadn’t yet resorted to bundling herself up in her blankets, pulling a pillow over her head and pretending that dwarves didn’t exist, but it was a near thing. Instead she was playing with her mother’s marriage beads. It was a habit that she’d picked up from her mother. Belladonna was already rolling the beads between her fingers. They were silver and though they’d once had an intricate crest pressed into them, she and her mother had worn away at it with their hands until the silver had smoothed almost clean and only an echo of the crest remained.

She should go out there. She _should_. Even if they were rude and loud. Even if they were Mean and big and didn’t know anything about her father. They were still her father’s people.

Mama always said that she wished Bilbo had got a chance to grow up more dwarfish. And even if she was grown up (At least in Shire reckoning) she should still get to know them. And it was only one night. At the very least she should find out what they want. Right. Bilbo nodded to her parents’ paintings and stood, catching sight of herself in the mirror as she did. Okay. New plan. Get dressed. Then go and meet the dwarves.

It was the work of only a few moments to find the clothes she had been wearing earlier and put them back on. Stress had already started undoing her hair into a frizzy mess and Bilbo spared a second to be grateful that she hadn’t decided to try sleeping with her curlers in. It would have been so embarrassing. She tucked it up into a high bun instead so she wouldn’t have to worry about it.

“Wish me luck, Mum, Dad, Father,” She said to the wall, eyes lingering for a moment on her father’s knives and then she pulled the door open. And almost bowled right into the wizard standing on the other side.

“Oh,” Bilbo gasped, her moment of courage all but abandoning her. “Mr Gandalf!”

“Hello, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said staring down at her with dark black eyes. “I believe that we should talk.”


	4. The Unusual Employing of Bilbo Baggins

Bilbo glanced up and down the hall for a minute, making sure that no one was around. Then she crossed her arms tight around her waist. “Maybe,” she agreed.

“Ah,” Gandalf said, leaning back against the wall. His face twisted in sympathy. “I believe I owe you an apology my dear.”

“I – what?” Bilbo squeaked, flinching back against the door to her bedroom. Owed _her_ an apology? People didn’t usually apologise to Bilbo. Not since her family had gone. Mostly they wanted her to apologise. For missing a party, for not accepting their courtship gifts, for not doing the decent thing for an unmarried spinster and moving out of her too-large-for-one smial and gifting it to her relatives.

“I did not realise that the dwarves would unsettle you so,” Gandalf said the candlelight flickering and twisting across his face. If it hadn’t been for the gentle compassion in his eyes, he would have seemed quite frightening. “I am truly sorry for any distress I may have caused you.”

A Tookish pride rose in Bilbo’s chest, or perhaps it was a Baggins’ indignation, or a dwarvish call to arms. Either way, she forced her arms down to her sides, and straightened her spine. “I am not unsettled.” She said, resisting the urge to stomp her foot. “I just do not understand what all these dwarves are doing in my home, Mr Gandalf! Is this about the adventure you invited me on?”

Gandalf smiled softly, a terrible sadness blooming in the corners of his lips. “I’m afraid it is. I believed that with a little more prompting you might be amenable to coming along.”

“Coming along, where, Gandalf?” Bilbo asked, tiredness colouring her voice into just shy of a whine. “What is this all about?”

“Do you know much of dwarves?” Gandalf asked, “I know that your mother was friends with a few, did you ever meet them.”

Bilbo shrugged, trying to force down the sharp pang of panic. Of someone finding _out_. Only adults had property. If Bilbo wasn’t an adult, she couldn’t have it and she’d have to go live in Tuckborough with her uncle and Lobelia would get the house that her dad had worked so hard to build. “I know some, they used to have a mountain and now they don’t. And they make good weapons.” She added thinking of her Father’s knives.

“The world is growing darker,” Gandalf said solemnly. “Some of the dwarves of Erebor have found refuge in the Blue Mountains, but their resources are dwindling. They cannot host such large numbers indefinitely. The rest of the Erebor dwarves travel between the villages of men, seeking work. The roads have become dangerous for these travellers. Orcs and goblins and trolls are coming out from beneath their mountains and more and more dwarrow who leave seeking work do not return.”

“…okay.” Bilbo said, biting her lip. There was a deep ache in her chest at the thought of this. They were her people, in a way that even Mama’s Blue Mountain friends had never been. And she could not help remembering the old horror of seeing her mother and father disappearing into the snow and never coming home. She couldn’t help replacing their disappearing figures with the silhouette of a dwarf she had never met.

“Some years ago, there was an attempt to reclaim their ancestral home in Moria. It was unsuccessful,” Gandalf closed his eyes a deep mourning slashed across his face for a brief moment before he seemed to steady himself and opened them. “Many lives were lost, some of them my dear friends. Now it seems, their only hope lies in returning to the home that was lost to them. The Lonely Mountain.”

“Um…the one with the dragon in it?”

“Yes,” Gandalf said.

“Um, the real life, living, fire breathing, people eating dragon? That they couldn’t kill the first time?” Bilbo aske, very aware that her voice was climbing higher and higher.

“The dragon has not been seen in many years.” Gandalf said. “Most believe it to be dead. They instead to sneak into the mountain and make sure. One of the dwarves I have brought you is Thorin, King under the Mountain. The halls of Erebor are his birth right, he would take them back.”

 _Thorin._ Bilbo’s breath stuttered in her chest. She knew that name. Her Mama had known that name. It could not be the same one, of course, not as a king. But the name at least was familiar.

“So,” she asked, voice even higher than it had been when she’d asked about the dragon. “what do they need me for. I can’t fight dragons. I can’t fight _anything_. I am a Baggins, of Bag End. We don’t come equipped for dragons.” 

“No one would be expecting you to fight the creature, my dear. There is a jewel. The Arkenstone. It is the symbol of Thorin’s crown, the right of Durin’s children to rule. If reclaimed it would unite the dwarven clans beneath his rule,” Gandalf said. “The dragon has the scent of dwarf. If he lives, we need someone without it to sneak inside and steal this stone.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said faintly, wondering if she was swaying a little. She felt like she was swaying. “So, you would not be sending me to fight a dragon, I would just have to go in on my own to steal from one. I don’t think dragon’s like thieves. In fact, most of the books agree that they don’t, Gandalf!”

“I know,” There was a deep solemnity in Gandalf’s voice. “But the fate of the Erebor dwarves depends on this mission. Without it, I fear they will be lost to the dark for good. And, without a Hobbit, the mission _will_ fail.”

Bilbo swallowed harshly. If her Father lived, he was one of these Erebor dwarves. If he lived, and Erebor was reclaimed, he may come home. “Why me, Gandalf,” she asked. There were tear burning in the back of her eyes. “why did you choose me?”

“Why, I remember a hobbit child, filled with her mother’s spirit, with the longing for adventure always chasing fireflies through the woods. All the ferocity of her Mother’s Tookish spirit, and the steadfastness of her Father, bound into one small package. You have lost your fire, Bilbo, alone in these empty halls. I believe that I owe it to my friendship with your dear mother to see that it is returned to you.”

Bilbo shook her head silently, tears still burning in her eyes. Wolves and orcs and untold dangers, “People who leave don’t come back, Gandalf.”

“Some do, my dear,” Gandalf said gently. “I will not force you to go if you do not wish. But I do believe that this quest needs you.”

Bilbo thought again of her Father’s knives, hanging uselessly on the wall all these years. Of how he had walked away into a fight that he fully believed he would not survive and done it anyway, out of duty. Of how her uncle Sig had allowed himself to fall in love, in spite of every rule the Shire had. Of how her mama and dad had got up every morning with the gaping emptiness of lost love tugging in their chests, and telling them to just lie down, but getting up anyway, just for her. Bilbo had felt that same emptiness. Some days it swallowed it hole, the grief where her parents should be. She did not understand how they could have pushed it down to give her a childhood. She had always been surrounded by bravery. Both big and small. Raised by them, and their stories, and their ghosts, how could Bilbo be anything less than brave.

“Okay,” Bilbo said, dashing her hand across her eyes. She tucked her hair firmly into her bun and smoothed down the front of her dress just in case her mama’s wedding beads were on display. “Shall we go and meet your king Thorin then?

“As you wish, my dear,” Gandalf said, offering her his arm and leading her into her own dining room. It was easy to see which one was the King. He was standing in the middle of the room, head held high and, clearly in the middle of making a pretty rousing speech. Then his blue, blue eye turned on her, harp and cold and utterly dismissive and Bilbo flinched.

Xxx

Fili smiled, sharp enough to cut, his eyes crinkling almost closed, even as he kept them pinned on his brother. His eyes were always drawn to Kili. Ever since the moment he was born and Amad told him that it was his job to protect him. Kili’s face was wide open and enthusiastic as he cheered along with the others. Bright and cheerful and showing none of the bleak reality that Fili now knew.

Uncle Thorin said that no one else was coming.

Gloin piped up, a rousing call about their strength and dedication and Fili cheered along with them. Across the room the thief’s eyes were sharp on his brothers, the way that Fili’s was on his. Dwalin was grasping the handle of his knife in clenching hands, and Balin was far too practiced in diplomacy to let the tension that had clenched his shoulders appear on his face. None of the others seemed to be reacting in any way other than fierce determination. But Fili had heard the truth of it. They were thirteen. Thirteen and a wizard. And no one else was coming.

Fili raised his tankard in another toast, nodding along as his uncle spoke and throwing it back. It was good ale. Aged. The barrels had been untouched. The burglar must have brought them in special for the feast. If you could say nothing else about her, she had good taste in ale. And you could say nothing else about her. For she was not here. Perhaps she was another who would not be coming. Fili had heard there was honour among thieves, but no contract had been signed yet. And who knew how these comfortable people upheld their deals. Men and elves did not. Why should the halfling be any different.

Kili laughed, clanging his tankard against Ori’s and slopping it over the rim, and onto the table. He seemed happy. Excited. At 78 Kili was two years shy of his majority and brimming with enthusiasm to be on his first, real quest. They had travelled with uncle to towns and before. Once they turned 70 a dwarf was expected to travel some to improve their craft. Always under supervision, and always with a teacher. The journey to the Shire had been the first time that they had been permitted to leave the mountain on their own. Fili caught the eyes of the thief again, the same determined sorrow caught in his as in Fili’s own. Fili had not expected to have anything in common with a thief. But this he understood. No matter what, Kili would survive this venture. Even if it took Fili’s last breath to ensure it.

Distantly, Fili realised that his uncle had gone silent. He looked over.

Gandalf had returned. The Hobbit escorted on one arm. He hadn’t really had a good look at her before. He was distracted by greeting his family and making introductions to the members of the quest he had not met.

Now that Fili was looking, she a wee thing. Smaller, than Kili, smaller even than Ori, that smallest of their number. He supposed it came with the territory. Being a Halfling and all. She sort of reminded him of Ori and Kili to be honest. She had the vaguely gangly look of youth that Kili had not quite grown out of, although Gandalf would not have brought a child into their company so this must be the way that Halflings were formed. Her hair was blonde, perhaps a shade or two lighter than true gold and she was covered in a smattering of freckles. She had changed out of the hideous patchwork robe she had been wearing when they arrived and into a dark green dress. Her feet were bare and abnormally large, with a fuzzy fluff of hair dusting the tops of them.

“So, this is the halfling,” Uncle said, his voice sharp with disapproval. “looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”

The hobbit flinched, before crossing her arms and sticking out her lip in a pout. “And you sound more like a bully than a king.”

Fili winced. Well. Having a burglar was a nice thought while it lasted.

“And where, exactly, have you been?” Uncle snarled, nostrils flaring the way he did when he was especially angry. “I would expect the common courtesy of being greeted by my host in person, when I arrived.”

“Yes, well, I was packing,” The hobbit shot a look at the wizard. “Gandalf didn’t tell me when you would be arriving. I was caught a little unawares. I am Bilbo Baggins,” she dipped into a little curtsey. “pleased to meet you.”

Uncle scoffed, “Axes or swords?”

The hobbit blinked. Clearly taken aback. “Um, excuse me?”

“Your weapon of choice. Axes, or swords?”

The Hobbit shot another glance at the Wizard, this one filled with confusion. “Um, neither?”

“So, you can’t even wield a weapon? What use exactly do you think you will be to us, then?”

“Oh, well,” The hobbit said. “Gandalf said something about stealing a rock?”

There was a low rumble of disapproval from the dwarves, and Fili couldn’t help adding his voice to the noise. To speak about their ancestral heritage, that Arkenstone, the heart of the mountain as though it was just some trinket. It was…unconscionable. The hobbit squeaked at the noise, and ducked closer to Gandalf, peering up at uncle with eyes that were very, very blue.

“Balin,” uncle said, through gritted teeth. “Bring the hobbit the contract. We have much to discuss before we leave in the morning.”

Balin brough the contract out and the hobbit read through it, going steadily paler and paler as she read through it. But she did scribble her name along the dotted line. Even if she did look as though she was going to faint when Bofur started talking about the ‘furnace with wings’ that awaited them. Fili could feel nothing but relief that it would be the burglar’s job to sneak past it, and not his brothers.

Fili ate more food and drank more ale as they spoke through the plan. At some point he noticed that the halfling had disappeared back to her room. But then uncle started to sing. And the burglar quite flew out of his mind. She did not truly matter. Not as long as Kili would live.


End file.
